Eyes of Another
by Kienova
Summary: She's never believed in her own beauty; and an impending marriage is not making it any easier.
1. Chapter 1

_**And all of your words fall flat**_ _ **  
**_ _ **I made something of myself and now you wanna come back**_ _ **  
**_ _ **But your love—it isn't free, it has to be earned**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Back then I didn't have anything you needed so I was worthless**_ _ **  
**_ _ **\- Kelly Clarkson, Piece by Piece**_

Her father had always been a kind man before her mother's death, taking care of both of them with the love and devotion he knew he should. Adair tried after Rossalyn's death, managing to keep the house running and his daughter cared for, his shop keeping food on their table and enough coal to keep the fire burning throughout the frigid Scottish nights. His temper awoke every few months however, his belt cracking as it swung at his daughter, striking her across her hands and back as she yelped, running from the room.

" _Yer bloody useless girl!"_ He would yell, shoving her away from him.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, curling up on herself in the corner of the kitchen, the stone floor cold against the skin of her legs and lower back.

" _Can't even sell ya, yer bloody hideous,"_ he would add, often grabbing her when she tried to escape, pressing his burning cigarette to her skin as she cried, the smell of alcohol permeating the air as his breath blew into her face.

She stopped crying the tenth time it happened, biting her cheek until it bled in order to take away from the feeling of her skin burning and the smell that would fill the kitchen. She took to reading medical textbooks at the library, learning how to mend her wounds herself with the small amount of supplies they had at home.

When he was in a good mood, when he hadn't been drinking, Adair was the normal father he had always been before Rossalyn's death. He doted on his daughter, bringing her sweets, asking her about her day, about school, about gossip in the town. She kept her distance however, spending the majority of her time at church when she wasn't at the library or school, praying for a release from her life.

The day she left he was more intoxicated than she had ever seen him, his gait staggering and his words slurred.

" _Ye bloody whore! Yer worthless, you hear me? WORTHLESS. Ye won't ever find a man lookin' like ye do! Stay with that God o' yers, he's the only one who could look past how ye look!_ "

She had grabbed a few pairs of clothes, shoving them into a satchel, along with a picture of her mother and the little amount of money she had gathered from helping out at the library and fled, her father's screaming echoing behind her, resonating in her mind all the way to London, the furthest she could get on such short notice and with a letter from her pastor hidden in her dress, telling her to go to Nonnatus House.

" _Get back here Shelagh! SHELAGH!"_


	2. Chapter 2

Shelagh bit her tongue, taking a deep breath before carrying the various garments into the sitting room for Sister Monica Joan to go through, settling the crate on the ground. She kneels next to it, poking at the fabric for a moment before her peace is disrupted by the entrance of Trixie, Jenny and Cynthia, the three talking a mile a minute.

"Oh! Shelagh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming round today," Trixie exclaimed, a smile across her face. "And you seem to have brought gifts with you!"

"It's just some bits of fabric Mrs. Gee had lying about. She said she thought that perhaps Sister Monica Joan could make something out of them in handicraft," Shelagh replies, getting to her feet and dusting off her skirt slightly, cocking her head to the side when Trixie reached into the crate, pulling out a strip of rich green fabric.

"Shelagh, you should see if she has more of this one, you would look ravishing in a dress this colour," Trixie muses, holding the material up next to Shelagh's face. The woman blushes, looking down at the carpet.

"I'm afraid it might be a bit too extravagant for me Trixie, but I'm sure you'd look lovely in that colour instead," Shelagh said, giving them all a small smile before exiting the room. Cynthia frowns, ignoring how Trixie is going through the rest of the fabric, Jenny sitting down at the end of the sofa to watch as she continues her story about an unruly patient. Instead of remaining with her fellow nurses, Cynthia follows the former nun out into the hall. She could tell something was amiss, and she had a feeling she knows what it is, for she too struggles with accepting herself, but she needed to make sure before she pressed.

"Shelagh, wait," Cynthia calls, jogging slightly to catch up. Shelagh halts, turning to wait for the smaller woman. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep you, it's just, you've still not told us what your wedding dress looks like. And now with Timothy on the mend and you and Doctor Turner having rescheduled the ceremony for a few weeks from now, I just... was wondering what it might look like?"

"It's very simple," Shelagh answers, not really meeting Cynthia's eyes, her gaze focused somewhere to the left of the young nurse's face.

"And is it white?"

"No, grey," Shelagh sighs, fiddling with the strap of her watch. "As much as I know that I am... entitled to wear a white dress, I just didn't feel... proper doing so." She gives a little shrug then before she leaves, Cynthia standing in the hallway looking forlorn. She's startled a few seconds later when the telephone rings and instantly springs into action, playing over everything she had just witnessed in her mind.

Cynthia manages to push everything to the back of her mind as she rushes out on a call, ending up standing next to Doctor Turner after an arduous delivery that went a lot quicker than anyone anticipated but still encompassed the latter half of her day.

"Doctor... may I ask you a question?" Cynthia queries, shifting her weight from one foot to another as her nerves start to get the better of her. She knows what she wants to ask, had been playing it over in her mind for a while now, even before the fabric incident at Nonnatus a mere few hours ago. As a nun, Shelagh had always seemed personable, happy to discuss the lives of the other nurses when she felt the Sisters were not paying attention, but with an edge of someone who was withdrawn and shy. Now, as a free woman about to be married, she seemed to still carry the self-deprecating nature with her.

"Of course Nurse Miller," he answers.

"Its...of a somewhat... personal nature," she adds, curling her toes inside her shoes. He looks down at her properly then, giving her his full attention.

"I shall answer you if I can," he says, looking wary.

"Forgive me but have... have you ever told Shelagh that she's pretty?" The words come out in a rush as Cynthia feels her cheeks heat. She knows she isn't really in the place to ask, but she can't help it. As much as she can sense that Shelagh is a lot happier now, there is still something so uncertain within her. Patrick goes to reply but then frowns, looking across the road at the buildings that run parallel to the sidewalk where they're standing. Lights are flicking on in the various windows, children being called inside as dusk settles over Poplar.

"I... don't know," he finally confesses. "I've thought it a million times, of course, but I can't remember if I have actually voiced it. Where is this coming from Nurse Miller?" Cynthia bites the inside of her cheek for a moment before she comes to a decision in regards to her response.

"I know it isn't my place to say this Doctor, but I do worry about her. Earlier today she seemed very hesitant to accept a compliment from Trixie regarding how she would look in a certain colour. And... and her wedding dress is _grey_ Doctor. She deserves so much more than such a bland, sad colour. She has always been so wonderful and supportive of all of us. I just cannot stand to think that she believes all she deserves is a grey dress," Cynthia rushes, fearing that if she slows down she will lose her nerve. When she looks back at the doctor she notices that he looks as if she's struck him.

"I had no idea," he finally says, seeming to shake himself out of his trance, frowning. "Cynthia... do you think you could get me that piece of fabric?" he adds, letting her given name slip, ignoring propriety as wind whipped around them.

"Of course," she replies, nodding frantically. "I'll bring it round to your office first thing tomorrow."

"Thank you," he says, tugging his jacket closer around him as he heads for his car. "Thank you for bringing all of this to my attention."


	3. Chapter 3

She entered the convent at 18, following through with the various tasks the Reverend Mother assigned her. She dutifully performed her religious vocations, learning the art of nursing at the same time. The day she took her final vows was the first time she felt truly free from her physical form. She locked herself in her cell at bedtime, taking a pair of scissors from the drawer of her desk and sitting down on the edge of her bed. Her hair fell down her back, tickling at her through the thin cotton of her night dress, picking into the delicate skin. She remembered how her father sometimes grabbed her hair as he threw her to the floor, pulling at her scalp as he removed her from wherever she had been and placing her on the hard stone.

Taking a deep breath she raised the scissors to her hair, cutting it in one slash of scissors, the long golden strands collapsing limply onto the bed. She let out a small, hollow laugh, grabbing the hair and shoving it into the wastepaper basket hastily, tucking the now much shorter locks beneath the cap she would wear to bed. As she closed her eyes she sighed, ignoring the tears pricking at the back of her lids. This was her life now, and she was glad of it. She didn't need to worry about how she looked here. Didn't need to have any vanity, didn't need to worry about putting makeup on, doing her hair, appearing in the fashions that were lighting up the streets of Poplar. She could don her habit and go about her day uninhibited, only focusing on God's will and the work she was tasked with as nurse and midwife. The fabric dwarfed her figure but she didn't care, glad of the distraction. It made it so that she couldn't see her figure, couldn't see the lack of the hourglass shape that women seemed to want.

She spent nearly a decade ignoring her looks, hiding, happy that she didn't have to care about such things anymore. It wasn't until she realised that she wasn't happy with her life, with being simply a nurse and nun, that she realised she needed to re-evaluate. After hearing the young nurses leave she had ducked into her cell, taking off her cap and glasses and looking at herself in the mirror. She tried to imagine herself as a normal woman, as someone that could go out and buy a new dress, sit in the sun all day, hold the hand of the man she felt she was slowly coming to love. Instead she frowned, hastily tucking her hair back up, disgusted by what she saw in the mirror. A decade hadn't changed her – hadn't made her any prettier than she was the day she had fled from Aberdeen.

The day Patrick kissed her hand in the kitchen her heart stopped. To have had him looking at her palm as if it was made of glass was one thing, but to have him press his lips to her skin was another. She turned hastily, not wanting him to realise it was someone so simple that he was showing affection towards. As a reflex she sprouted words about her vows, her devotion to God, trying to make him think that she turned from him for the sake of her beliefs. In reality, she turned for she was scared that he would realise who he was with and be repulsed. She knew who she was beneath the folds of blue fabric. The plain girl from the North who held no physical beauty to be talked about; to be admired. She had heard him leave, the curtain rustling as he went. She had only turned around once he was gone, hand throbbing from the laceration and heart breaking in her chest, a sob catching in her throat. How she wanted him to truly want her, to love her the way she was quickly coming to realise she loved him.

The tuberculosis made it worse. She lost weight, skin sallow as she took pill after pill in order to force the disease from her body. She slowly regained herself over the months at the sanatorium, but still dreaded the knowledge that the clothes she would be leaving in wouldn't hide her from the eyes of the world anymore. She knew she could no longer wear the habit, her love pulling her away from her vows and towards the doctor who kissed her hand and made her heart pound beneath her ribs. She picked at the dull clothing that was delivered to her, noting how it was all utilitarian at best and had been purchased simply because it was anything but flashy. She had bought those particular garments because she could use them to blend in to the crowds, sinking amidst the masses of people. If she matched the dull grey of London, then people would look past her, through her, instead of noticing her. She slid the clothes on, fingers shaking slightly as she did up the buttons. She frowned at herself when she looked in the mirror, her hair curling around her shoulders. Inside, she wanted to scream. Seeing her hair down was a reminder of who she had been as a girl, when she had discovered that she would never live up to the beauty of the other girls in her district. Biting her lip she grabbed the brush, sweeping her hair back into a tight knot, pressing hairpins into it until it obeyed, the strands secured safely behind her head, away from her face. It was better that way. Less people would look at her if her hair looked more severe, pulled back to help her dissolve into the hoards of people in London.

When she saw him again on the road in the fog her heart leapt, her head spinning as he jogged towards her. After everything, all his letters, the stilted phone conversation, she knew he had to love her as much as she loved him. His presence in that moment showed her that, his dark eyes skimming over her features as he pressed his hand to her forehead to check for a recurring fever. It was the first time he had seen her for who she truly was – a plain woman wearing no makeup, her hair pulled back and tiny form dwarfed by the clothes from a decade before, slightly too big on her now, especially after her illness, but all she owned.

She didn't blame him for not leaning in to kiss her. Why would he? Just because he loved her didn't mean he was blind. She knew he could easily see all her flaws now, completely on display. Hips that were of normal if not slender build, chest that was tiny, no heavy breasts pushing out the fabric of her blouse to draw attention from men. The women back in Poplar all exceeded her beauty with their looks, wide hips, tiny waists, heaving bosoms that shook when they laughed. Toned legs that could both carry weight while also drawing the eye when they were clad simply in nylons beneath a skirt, heels allowing them to tower over their normal heights and adding a swing to their hips. Women that looked like Trixie, like Jenny, like the other young females that walked the streets, heads held high, laughter filling the air as man after man looked after them, eyes on their backsides as they passed.

She knew she looked bland next to him, a ruggedly handsome doctor who, although her senior, was still visually in his prime. As he led her to the car she had to bite back tears. As much as she understood that he loved her and found her at least tolerable, she had wished that for some reason he would find her beautiful. That he had been overcome and kissed her. Instead, he gently held her hand as they drove back to Poplar, unaware of her heart shattering in her chest, the insecurities from the age of thirteen onward suddenly drowning her again. Her father had been right – why would anyone ever find her pretty?


	4. Chapter 4

It's a week before he can manage to get things together, an outbreak of the flu keeping him busy at the surgery and with his patients. The entire time he wished Shelagh was still nursing as he had trudged through patient after patient, for he knew that her kind bedside manner would have put more people at ease than he could. When he finally has time, he invites her over for dinner, promising to buy take away so that she doesn't have to endure his cooking. She scoffs at him, insisting that she will cook and that he's just being daft.

Conversation throughout dinner is light and easy, discussing the quickly approaching wedding along with the various personalities of Poplar. He's careful in bringing up the nuns, allowing her to lead any conversations regarding her previous occupation, but she seems light hearted in her speech, relaxing with a cup of tea in her hand as the fire crackles behind the grate in the sitting room. He's glad Timothy is at his grandmother's tonight. He knows that his son still has a long way to go with his recovery, but he could tell the child was getting extremely restless being confined to the house for so long after the hospital. Even if it was only a night, this gave Timothy a change of scenery at the least.

Patrick takes a deep breath, unsure of how things are going to go. Since his conversation with Cynthia he had been extra vigilant when watching Shelagh, suddenly picking up on the way she seemed to shrink away from people, never really casting her own reflection a glance in the shop windows or mirrors she passed like the other women in Poplar did. Her clothes were modest and although they reflected the female structure, they were not truly tailored to her body, leaving enough fabric to hide her figure around her chest and waist. Aside from the little bit of time she spent in his flat before Christmas, he had never seen her with her hair down. She always wore it tightly back, almost as if she was ashamed of the femininity that the loose waves may bring to her. That morning before Timothy had fallen ill he remembered thinking how gorgeous she looked, the sun streaming in through the curtains and setting her hair aflame with streaks of gold and copper.

"I know you're probably going to scold me for this, but I bought you something," Patrick says, watching as Shelagh places her tea cup on the table, her eyes tracking him as he moves to the other end of the sitting room, pulling a box from beneath his armchair before crossing back to her and placing it on her lap. She looks at him with confusion before gingerly lifting the lid, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of the green dress nestled within the paper.

"Patrick, you didn't have to do this," she whispers, fingers tracing the edge of the neckline. Its slightly lower than she's used to wearing, but not in a way that would be immodest. Instead, she knows the scoop of fabric will show her collarbones and maybe just a hint of her bosom. On any other women she knows it would look beautiful, the stylish cut, the rich colour – it's like something from a magazine.

"I know, but I wanted to. Nurse Miller told me about the fabric and I just couldn't help but agree with her. You'll look lovely in this colour," he replies, taking her hand in his for a moment before she gives him a weak smile, placing the box on the table as she gets up and walks into the hall, her hands clutching the edge of the sideboard as she leans against it, her face unreadable in the mirror that rests on the wall in front of her. He can see the hesitation in the way she holds her body, her knuckles turning white against the dark wood.

"Shelagh," he breathes, crowding up against her back, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head on her shoulder, looking at the image of them in the mirror together. She blushes slightly, ducking her gaze so as not to meet his in the polished glass. He realised then how tiny she looks against him, his form dwarfing hers. She's delicate in his arms in that moment and he so desperately wants to protect her against the world and, more than likely, herself as well.

"I'm sorry I'm not... more for you," she mutters to the floor. He desperately wants to spin her around then and grab her by the shoulders until she listens to him, but he doesn't, knowing that his original idea of how to broach the subject was a better one.

"Do you know what I thought the first time I ever saw you?" he asks, stroking her arm gently, his breath warming her neck as he speaks.

"No," she replies, voice so quiet he barely catches it. He can feel the tension resonating in her body despite her attempts to calm herself.

"That you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," Patrick says, watching her in the mirror. She blushes even harder, still not meeting his gaze.

"You... you don't have to say things like that. My father told me I wasn't like the other girls... that I wouldn't ever look like them. I know I'm not pretty like Trixie or Jenny Lee," she mumbles, her fingers clinging into the fabric of her jumper. Instantly his ire rises, his mind whipping around the fact that it is her father that may have caused these thoughts to surface within her. How could a father have never told his daughter that she was beautiful?

"No, you're completely gorgeous, pretty isn't an adequate enough word for you," he insists. "You're absolutely perfect Shelagh." When she still doesn't reply he realises he needs to elaborate more. Before speaking to Cynthia he hadn't realised he had never voiced how much he loved the woman in his arms to her. He had never told her of how much he adored every inch of her, feeling like the luckiest man alive to have somehow won the love of the tiny woman. "Do you have any idea how much I love the feeling of your hand in mine? Our fingers fit so perfectly together." He gently takes her hand, entwining their digits and stroking the back of her palm.

"Patrick," she whispers.

"Or how much I love seeing you smile? Every time you smile at me I swear I feel my heart skip a beat. I remember the first time I truly felt that. Back before I knew my feelings for you. Before I could say them. My entire chest seized at the sight of you," he places a kiss on her cheek. "Do you have any idea how much I love you? How much I want you? How much I want to know what it feels like to have your skin against mine? I so often fantasise about what its going to feel like to have your hips in my hands, to know what you look like beneath your clothes, to watch you break apart beneath me. I want all of you Shelagh, so much so that it takes my breath away."

"You think that now but... you won't always think that," she says, voice cracking. He feels a lump in his throat then, a sudden horror filling his mind.

"Shelagh," he presses, feeling her wrench herself out of his arms, her hands scrabbling at the fabric of her blouse, pulling the hem from her skirt as she whips around, her back exposed to him and the light of the lamps from the sitting room that spill into the hallway.

"I am _not_ beautiful," she half sobs, fingers clenched tightly in the fabric as Patrick's eyes slide to the strip of skin that is on display. Her lower back is scattered with pock-marks, the rounded scars marring her pale flesh light. He knows instantly what they are – cigarette burns. His heart seizes in his chest when he realises that her feelings of inadequacy go so much further that just living up to certain standards. Beyond the gaudy personalities of Poplar, she had been made to think that she wasn't attractive for years before joining the convent if the scars were correct. He could see her trembling, trying to keep the cries contained as she stands there and he instantly needs to fix this, to fix her.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time she went dress shopping she felt overwhelmed. Alone, terrified, and utterly confused at what was to be expected from anyone standing in the middle of such a shop, surrounded by taffeta, silk, and lace. The woman who was helping her seemed bored at best, pointing out one gown after another. Shelagh kept shaking her head, looking at each dress as if from a distance.

Too much lace. Too tight around the hips. Too gaudy. Too... perfect.

Everywhere she looked she saw dresses that were made for woman with a figure, who looked like they could step right off the cover of a magazine and into the room. Everything was so pristine, the white fabric practically glowing in the winter sunlight of the shop.

"Anything striking your fancy?" the shop girl asked with a resound sigh, her gaze focused on a young woman across the salon who was surrounded by her squealing friends, all of them with perfect hair, painted nails, dresses that showed off their bodies even in their seated positions. The young bride looked gorgeous, the white lace clinging to her body with a grace Shelagh felt she could never attain, her veil trailing behind her as she did a little spin.

"I just... want something simple," the Scottish woman breathed, trying to calm the racing of her heart. She loved Patrick, and wanted nothing more than to marry him, but the entire concept of getting a dress was making her feel as if she couldn't breathe. The sea of white was one that portrayed purity and refinement, the colour meant to give beauty to the woman wearing them, proclaiming her chastity and splendour at becoming a wife. She may have never been with a man, never touched a man before Patrick, and even that was still so new, so gentle, so proper, that she could mentally equate that with being allowed to wear white on her wedding day. But her head won't let her, believing that her leaving the convent made her unworthy of such a shade, despite her physical status of virgin.

"Right," the girl drawled, "how about one of these?" She pointed to a smaller rack of dresses, all of them simple, most knee length, and in varying colours from white to peach, to grey.

"Th-that one, I suppose," Shelagh managed, pointing at the silver-grey dress at the end. The girl nodded, taking it off the rack and leading Shelagh into a fitting room.

"I'll be just outside if you need help," she muttered, ducking back out of the curtain and leaving the panic filled woman alone. Shelagh took a shuddering breath, fingers shaking as she slowly removed her clothes, folding them neatly on the chair that sat in the corner of the room. She didn't look at her reflection, knowing that she wouldn't see a beaming, blushing woman looking back at her. She wouldn't look like the woman who she could still hear giggling with her friends out on the shop floor. Wouldn't be brimming with excitement to try on a wedding gown.

She slid into the dress with rote motions, casting a quick glance at herself in the mirror once it was firmly affixed in place. It looked... adequate.

She quickly changed back, gently folding the garment over her arm before she walked back out, paying for the dress with barely any commentary from the shop girl who looked like she was exceedingly glad the quiet woman had made a decision and was leaving.

When the bomb scare happened, it made her rethink her choice. She tried the dress on in Patrick's living room, looking at herself in the mirror and questioning everything. It looked so plain, so bland. How could she walk up to her soon to be husband in something like that?

She went back to the shop, repeating the horrifying process with an older woman as her guide. It didn't change things. She felt every snag and dip on her body when she put on each of the gowns, feeling like she was drowning in tulle or suffocating in lace. She couldn't handle the sight of herself, and she hated herself for it. She looked so severe in the mirror, hair pulled back tight and wearing dresses she was not comfortable in.

"Are you all right?" the shop woman called.

"Yes, sorry, I'll just be a moment," Shelagh answered, sitting down on the chair, ignoring her own clothes beneath her, as she buried her face in her hands. The gorgeous dresses hung along the wall, taunting her, torturing her. Pulling her knees up to her chest she cried, tears dampening the satin of her slip. In a fit of anger she jumped to her feet, pulling the fabric up and over her head, turning her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder.

The faint lines and circles that scatter across her lower and mid back mocked her, the criss-crosses from being whipped with a belt stretching across her lower ribs, the cigarette burns painting a painful dot-to-dot along the top of her pelvis and coccyx. She was still too thin, her ribs prominent in the polished glass that sent the revolting image back at her. An image of someone who had been through more in her young life than most; an image of someone who had been broken down so far that she no longer knew how to stand up again.

She sniffed, grabbing her slip and yanking it back on before redressing. She would keep the dress she had bought in the first place. She didn't deserve anything better. Someone that looked like her, that had the scars she carried, didn't merit a white wedding dress of tulle and trimmed with lace and silk, no matter how much a tiny part of her, the part of her that imagined getting married as a little girl, wanted it.

If her eyes wandered to a dress that she adored as she left the shop after the distressing conversation with the shop keeper about not having a mother or sisters to shop with her, she didn't admit it.

Someone who looked like her didn't warrant a dress like that.


	6. Chapter 6

_**But piece by piece he collected me  
Up off the ground where you abandoned things,  
Piece by piece he filled the holes  
That you burned in me at six years old  
**_

Shelagh's exclamation of " _I am not beautiful_ " bounces around in his head, making Patrick dizzy with horror and sadness. To know how she views herself, to think that she can truly believe that she isn't gorgeous simply because of the scars on her back breaks him. As he looks closer he notices the lines along with the circles, evident just under the edge of her blouse where her hand is holding it against her skin. How much revulsion had she endured? How much pain? How many times had she been hit, been burned, before she couldn't handle anymore? How many had it taken for her to lose all confidence in herself? To hate herself this much?

Dropping to his knees he curls his arms around her legs, pressing a soft kiss against one of the bigger marks, eyes closed against his own emotions. He feels her resolve break then, a sob wrenching from her lungs as she nearly collapses against him. He catches her on the way to the ground, pulling her against his chest, pressing kisses to her temple as he cradles her in his lap.

"Please, _please,_ believe me when I say that seeing your scars just confirms to me how beautiful you are both inside and out," he begs her, warm breath puffing against her ear. She shakes her head, trying to voice her disagreement but he shushes her. "Yes, you are Shelagh. You are so wonderful and gorgeous and I am so damned lucky that you've chosen me."

He's desperately trying to figure out what else to say to make her understand that the world doesn't see her the way that she sees herself when it is as if a wall within her collapses; all the demons that are contained within the Pandora's box of her heart exploding forth in a typhoon of emotion, no longer able to be contained after over twenty years.

"Why... why have you never kissed me?" she hiccups between cries. She looks so tiny and broken in his arms just then, her face buried in his shirt.

"Oh my poor sweet darling," he breaths, suddenly feeling like the most horrible man in all of London. Had his lack of pushing for physical affection really made her doubt herself this much? "I didn't want to make you do anything you weren't ready for," he says. "I've wanted to kiss you properly for ages, but I wasn't sure how you would react." He puts every ounce of sincerity that he can into the statement, desperate for her to know that it is the truth. He feels her shuddering against him, her blouse still awkwardly pushed up around her waist. Gingerly, he strokes his thumb over her scars, learning the rises and falls of the torturous marks with the ridges of his fingerprints. He wants to map them out, to learn every molecule on her skin that she doesn't like so that he can kiss them away by memory. He wants to erase her doubts and fears until she sees herself in his vision – a woman of strength, grace and beauty; a woman infallible in faith and compassion. A woman he can't wait to call his wife.

"Would you kiss me?" she requests, voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't raise her head at the question, but rather remains curled in a tight ball, leaning against his chest and bracketed by his thighs. He takes a steadying breath before he reached forward, sliding his hand under her cheek and tilting her face upwards.

"Shelagh, I love you. I will kiss you every second of every day as long as you allow me to," he explains, brushing some of her tears away before lowering his mouth to hers, gently pressing their lips together. He feels all the fight go out of her as she melts into him, straining to get more contact. He notices how she twists, managing to get to her knees so their height is more level, her fingers clutching the fabric of his jumper as her lips move clumsily against his. He realises in that moment that this is her first kiss. That she's probably never felt comfortable enough to let her guard down with anyone until him; not even before she entered the convent. That she's probably always felt so self-conscious that she never tried to get close to anyone before now. She breaks away after a moment, gasping for breath and sitting back on her heels, cheeks red and tear stained.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "That's probably not what you –" He cuts her off, surging forward until he's kissing her again, hands cradling her face.

"This is what I want," he says against her lips. "You are what I want. Always. Every inch of you." The words are punctuated with kisses across her face and down her neck as Patrick feels her relax into the contact. As he leans back he sees that her eyes are closed, but no longer tightly like they had been earlier. Rather, she seems calm in that moment, as if, at least for a minute, she believes him. Patrick knows that this is only the tip of an iceberg much deeper than he initially thought, but he has at least given her a flash of respite.

They settle into a contented silence, Shelagh resuming her previous position of being curled in a ball against his chest. He knows that the floor isn't the best place for this, but he can't find it in him to ask her to move, knowing the complex antithesis that is her strength and fragility at that moment. He has a million questions he wants to ask her but he bites his tongue. From the way he can feel Shelagh's weight increasing slightly against him he knows that she is falling asleep.

"Shelagh, Love," he whispered, kissing the crown of her head.

"Can I stay here?" she asks, voice slightly slurred from exhaustion.

"Of course my darling," he replies, helping her to her feet. She struggles a little, cheeks flaming as she notices the state of her clothes. She instantly goes to straighten the fabric when Patrick catches her hands, halting the motions.

"Patrick," she beings to protest.

"Don't, you're gorgeous when you look debauched like this," he says, voice nearly a growl in her ear as he places a sloppy kiss on her neck before tugging her up the stairs. He makes her sit on the edge of the bed as he scavenges something for her to wear – a nightdress he had bought for her but had yet to give her before that moment. The act has her blushing furiously, thanking him in a meek voice, as he strokes the back of her hand when he passes the fabric to her. "I'll be on to sofa," he tells her, ducking down to peck her on the lips again, knowing that she is all right with the contact now. He turns to leave when she grabs his fingers, stopping him.

"Stay," she begs, insecurity lacing her voice. He wishes all his medical training could give him a solution to this, to make her feel better about herself.

"All right. But I'm trusting you to leave my delicate sensibilities intact Miss Mannion. I won't have any funny business," he teases, loving how she bites back a smile at his words. They take turns in the bathroom, Patrick taking his cues from Shelagh as they climb beneath the covers.

"Goodnight," Shelagh yawns as Patrick turns off the lamps. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, knowing that his next question may be pushing things too far for one night, but unable to stop himself.

"May I hold you?" he queries into the darkness, noticing how she stiffens, even in the dimness of the room. "You can say no if you're not comfortable with it," he rushes, instantly fearing that he's taken one too many liberties for the evening.

"You... you want to hold me?" The insecurity seems to have come back, her voice breaking as she stammers through the words.

"Always," he croaks, not waiting anymore, rolling towards her and pulling her against his chest, his arm wrapping around her waist tightly. He kisses her neck, his thumb stroking her stomach through the fabric as he clings to her, noticing how her slim fingers tangle in the fabric of his pyjama shirt. "There will never be a day I won't want to hold you Shelagh. Not a single day."


	7. Chapter 7

He stays awake till she falls asleep; wanting to make sure that she knows he's there even in sleep before he allows himself to drift off. When he wakes up some hours later she's still unconscious, breathing softly against his arm, the sunlight starting to drift in through the curtains and casting beams of glittering warmth across her skin. He watches her then, taking in her soft features in the early dawn, the lines of tension and worry erased from her face. He wants to reach out, to trace the gentle line of her cheekbone, to brush the pad of his thumb against her lashes, feel the softness of the tiny golden feathers that cast little shadows on her cheeks. He wants to kiss her nose, to watch the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, to know the feeling of her mouth against his when she giggles.

He doesn't do any of those things in that moment, instead, he stays where he is, content to watch her drift. The sun is higher when she finally stirs, a soft little moan escaping her as she blinks awake, seeming to be slightly shocked at his proximity as she takes in his gentle smile.

"Good morning lovely," he greets her, finally letting himself reach across the pillows, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hello," she replies, nervousness radiating off her as she struggles to sit up, not meeting his gaze as she stares towards the end of the bed. She's lost in her head, battling with the demons there. He can instantly feel her insecurities rushing back in, even though she doesn't speak of them.

' _Ye'd have t' let 'im sleep with ye to keep 'im, ye hideous thing; not that anyone would want t' in the first place_ '

Her father's voice bounces around her head, making her swallow thickly. Patrick had been so kind to her the night before, holding her, kissing her, assuring her of his affection. But could it really withstand much longer? Could he really love her despite who she was? Despite the scars that riddled her back and the gouged out parts of her heart? Taking a shuddering breath she sits up on her knees, trembling fingers going to the few buttons on the top of her nightdress. He had bought it for her, probably with the intent of her wearing it on their wedding night. Circumstances had already pushed their wedding back for months, she doesn't want to delay him any longer, for fear of losing him.

"Shelagh?" Patrick questions, his voice seeming far away as she manages the first two buttons, her fingers slipping on the third. Already the fabric is parting, revealing her collar bones and the top of her sternum. "Shelagh, what are you doing?" He's starting to become frantic at the lack of response, wondering where her mind has taken her.

"D-do you want... do you want me on my back?" she asks, voice cracking as she stammers through the words, still trying to open the third button. Patrick's heart starts hammering in his chest at that and he launches himself into a seated position, grabbing her hands and stilling her movements. He's aware he may have done it with slightly more force than he intended but he's never been more horrified in his life than in that moment.

"Shelagh, stop!" he demands, hating that she flinches away from him a little. "Please, please my darling, tell me what's going on. I need to understand what you're doing," he rushes onwards, noting how she's closed her eyes against the onslaught.

"I... I..." she gasps, struggling to breathe. "I don't want to lose you." The words are said with such agony that it breaks him.

"And you think you're going to lose me if..." he hesitates to finish the sentence, not wanting to speak the words aloud, hoping that if he doesn't voice them, that they will just be a horrific idea and not a fact.

"You've... you've already been so patient. More than patient. You've already had to wait months longer than you intended and I –"

"Stop!" he nearly yells, bile crawling up his throat. "Stop this right now!" He's up and out of the bed in an instant, pacing the floor as she cowers away from him, pressing herself back against the headboard. He hates that he's frightened her, that she's so worried about making him happy that she doesn't think twice about her own sanctity. That she's willing to compromise herself to keep him. He drops to his knees beside the bed, taking her hands, kissing her knuckles in a way to try and calm her as soon as he has himself under control, deep shuddering breaths breaking from his lungs as he attempts to form the words correctly, needing to assure her that he wants her, but not like this. Never like this.

He wonders how many women think so lowly of themselves that they too would consider sleeping with someone just to keep them. How many young women in Poplar have been allowing themselves to be swayed by their own insecurity when they've held themselves together for so long. Had the circumstances been different, had they been lost in passion with one another, he may have considered it, may have let his guard down enough to bed her if she wanted him to, and only if she wanted him to, but knowing that she thought she _needed_ to give herself to him before the wedding simply because they had already had to wait...

"I'm sorry," she croaks, tears brimming in her eyes, thinking she's done something wrong again.

"Shelagh, my love, I need you to listen very carefully to me, all right? And I need you to take these words exactly as they are," he urges her, holding her hands to his heart and waiting for her confirmation, a tiny nod, before he continues. "I love you. I have loved you since before I was allowed to, and I will love you until the last breath leaves my body. I love everything about you. The way you would scold patients, the way you could wrangle the nurses from their tiffs, the way you look on everyone with such wonder and compassion, giving each of them a little piece of yourself in the process. I love how your eyes crinkle at the corners when you laugh, the way your eyelashes catch the light in the sun, how perfectly your hands fit in mine. I love you for your strength and your beauty, because you are Shelagh, you are so beautiful and strong and immaculate. And please understand that when I say I don't want to take this step with you, it means that I just do not want to take it in this moment. Not like this. When I imagine making love to you it is on our wedding night. It is when we are both free and happy to give ourselves to one another. It is an act of _love_ , Shelagh. Not an act of you paying me for my affections with your body. Not you fulfilling some duty you think you are meant to. It is an act of two people giving themselves to each other in the most primal and love-filled way possible. I want it to be that way. I want to see you walk towards me at our wedding in a white dress, knowing that you are able to look your friends in the eye because you are able to wear that colour in honesty. I want to watch your skin flush against the white of your dress as I take it off you and make love to you here, in this bed, after we are man and wife in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of God. I don't want my memories of the first time we're together to be tainted by you feeling you are obligated to me. If you told me that you could never be intimate with me, if it was something _you_ didn't want, I would accept that, and I would still marry you. I will never push you for something you are not ready for. You are everything to me Shelagh. Please, I need you to understand that."

* * *

 _ **Please note that they way I've chosen to portray Patrick's thoughts in this chapter regarding Shelagh's attempted actions are based on the fact that as a teacher I have had more female students come to me in tears for giving themselves up for their boyfriend or someone they like than I ever wanted, and I know that this will be an ongoing issue for the duration of my career. While I believe everyone is entitled to do as they wish (as long as consent is fully involved), I know that perceptions of physical beauty and personal feelings and desires can taint logic and make people do things they aren't ready for or haven't fully thought about. If you every feel that you are being forced or "obligated" to do something for a partner, or with a partner, please talk to someone. Talk to your parents, your siblings, your friends, your teachers, anyone who you think could help you come to a decision that you are comfortable with. Because sacrificing your own beliefs simply to keep someone isn't worth it.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading 3**_


	8. Chapter 8

Patrick stays completely still after his monologue, waiting with baited breath for Shelagh to react. He anticipates the worst – that she will tell him he was lying; that he couldn't love her; that she didn't deserve that. He waits for her to wrench her hands out of his grip, to run from the room, to scream at him.

"My dress is grey," is all she says, bursting into tears the second the words are out of her mouth. He instantly is on the bed next to her, gathering her into his arms as she cries for what feels like eons, her tears soaking into his pyjama top and staining the light fabric. He murmurs his devotion to her into her hair, holding her to his chest and rocking her slightly, relieved when he feels her arms wrap around his back as she scrambles into his lap. When the sobbing finally ebbs he rubs circles into her shoulder blades, calming her, wishing that he could erase all the pain she's been holding inside since she was a child.

"Would you like a white dress?" he asks carefully, wary that he may cause another eruption. He feels her nod against his neck, hiccupping slightly.

"I want to be beautiful for you," she whispers.

"You could be dressed in a potato sack and completely filthy and I would still think you are the most beautiful woman in all of England," he responds. "If you like your dress, then keep it, I will love it because it is something you've chosen. But... but if you'd like something else, that's all right too. I want you to be happy Shelagh, more than anything." She sits quietly against him for a while, her breathing slowing.

"I... I think I would like a white dress," she decides, sleep tainting her voice as she curls herself ever closer into Patrick's chest.

"All right," he smiled, kissing the crown of her head. "Why don't I give Cynthia a ring and she can go with you? I'm sure she'd be delighted." He feels her nod her assent, her body sagging back into sleep a little while later. He lays her down carefully on the bed, noting that it is still early, barely gone eight in the morning. It amazes him how much had occurred since the sun rose. Covering her with the duvet he slips out of the room and downstairs, ringing Nonnatus and asking for Cynthia.

He explains what had happened, careful not to reveal too much, wanting desperately to protect Shelagh from any scorn or questions that she wouldn't want to answer. Cynthia, as he anticipated, is more than happy to offer her time for that afternoon, promising to call round just after lunch and assist in any way that she can. As he hangs up the phone Patrick scrubs his hands over his face. His heart aches for the woman who is asleep in his bed. He has so many questions he wants to ask her – when had this started? Did the physical attacks come first or was it the emotional? Had she been hurt by any other men aside from her father? Did he need to drive to Aberdeen and commit murder?

Sighing, he got up from the sofa, deciding he needs a bath while he allows Shelagh to sleep off the emotional overload from the morning.

"Please God, let her be all right. Let me be able to care for her in the way she deserves; in a way that can show her how miraculous you've made her," he prays, ignoring his own lack of faith in the moment simply because he could think of no other way to ask for guidance, needing help in showing his fiancée how much he loves her.

Shelagh slept till nearly ten o'clock, looking sheepish when she woke up to find Patrick sitting in the chair at the corner of the room.

"I wasn't sure if you would want to be alone or not," he explains, watching as she sat up, running her hands through her hair in an attempt to tame it. It curled about her face in loose tendrils, so different than he was used to seeing it. "I like your hair like that," he adds, crossing to the bed and placing a soft kiss on her cheek. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but stops herself, letting a blush colour her cheeks instead. "I'm going to get you an aspirin, I'm sure you've a terrible headache. Cynthia said she'll come round after lunch if you'd like." She's left squinting after his retreating form, feeling lighter in a way. A million doubts still swam in her head, but she felt herself becoming less worried about how Patrick viewed her. When he returns a moment later, glass of water and the medication in hand, she feels her heart swell.

"Thank you," she says, catching his hand when he passes her the pills. He grins down at her, watching as she takes them, unable to stop himself from stroking her hair, gently tangling his fingers in the strands, noting how soft they are. She leans into his touch, sighing. "If you keep this up I..." she halts, seeming to question her words.

"You can say anything to me," he urges her.

"I may not want to go looking for a dress when it feels so nice to be here with you, like this," she confesses, flushing again. He chuckles in reply, dropping one more kiss to her forehead before backing away.

"I promise than we can continue this as soon as you've finished your outing with Cynthia," he assures her. "Why don't you take a bath and I'll get your dress from downstairs. If you'd like," he hastily adds. She bites her lip, thinking for a moment before she nods, heart soaring at the look of elation that crosses his face.

Cynthia shows up exactly when she said she would, looking slightly nervous as she stood on the doorstep until Patrick ushers her inside, whispering a quick thanks in her ear. She finds Shelagh sitting at the table, twisting a napkin in her hands, the green fabric of the dress she's wearing highlighting her fair features and tiny waist.

"Shelagh," Cynthia gasps. "You look fantastic." The slightly older woman turns scarlet, muttering a thank-you to the carpet as Patrick comes up behind her, his hand landing on her shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles into her collar bone.

"Would you ladies like me to drive you?" he questions, feeling some of Shelagh's tension evaporate at the suggestion. He knows she's still worried, still fearful of her own reflection, reliant on him now to provide her with reassurance.

"If... yes," Shelagh responds, remembering Patrick's desire for her to speak her mind around him. He smiles at her, motioning for her and Cynthia to head for the door while he finds his keys, the three of them climbing into the car with little hesitation. Cynthia immediately starts up a conversation about one of the mothers at the clinic who has been driving Sister Evangelina up the wall with her constant litany of worries and complaints, making Shelagh laugh, her hair, only partially pulled back, catching the sunlight as Patrick drives them to the dress shop.

"You two go have fun, I'll just be in the cafe across the road," he explains, giving Shelagh's hand a squeeze as he helps her out of the car, watching Cynthia take her arm and lead her into the shop, only heading into the cafe once they've disappeared through the door and up the stairs.

Cynthia comes to get him soon after she and Shelagh have vanished into the shop, a worried look on her face.

"Is everything all right?" he asks hastily, already getting to his feet and leaving enough money on the table to pay for his cup of tea.

"She's just nervous I think," Cynthia muses, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "But she doesn't want me or the shop keeper to see her in any of the dresses. I'm just a little worried that she's not seeing herself properly." Patrick nods, already heading for the door with Cynthia at his heels.

"I promise I won't look, but let me speak with her," he rushes, already taking the steps up to the shop two at a time, Cynthia struggling to keep up. He ignores the angry look of the shop keeper who isn't happy about a man in the salon, following Cynthia's lead towards one of the dressing areas.

"Shelagh," he calls, hearing fabric rustle from within the dressing room. "Tell me about your dress," Patrick says quietly, standing on the other side of the curtain, keeping his eyes closed so that he doesn't catch a glimpse of it if Shelagh attempts to flee from the shop.

"Patrick," she whispers. He can hear the emotion thick in her voice, trying to break free in a flurry of tears he knows will come if he's not extremely delicate with how he handles this situation.

"Is it taffeta?" he asks, trying to remember the names for all the fabrics surrounding him.

"No, not really," she answers. "It... it has lace on it," she finally confesses after a moment of silence. He smiles softly to no one, feeling his heart rate slow.

"Where is the lace?"

"Everywhere. Its overlaid on the skirt and the bodice."

"What pattern is it?"

"There... there are flowers."

"And the skirt, is it... poofy?" He cringes at the word but couldn't think of another way to ask. The giggle that responds to him however is worth his own embarrassment at his limited vocabulary in relation to women's clothes.

"Yes," she replies, a little breathless.

"You'll look beautiful," he assured her. Silence envelops them again and suddenly he's terrified that she is going to contradict him. That the panic Cynthia had warned him about is going to bring forth her fragile self image with startling ferocity.

"It's white." Is the quiet response, nothing more and nothing less. There is a hint of insecurity and wonder laced in the words, as if she is unsure of her ability to deserve such a thing.

"Then it's perfect for you, as long as you like it," he remarks.

"I... I think I do," she confesses.

"I'm going to go. You show your dress to Cynthia, all right?" he urges.

"Patrick," she calls, timid again.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you too." He opens his eyes enough to slip his hand through the crack in the curtain, reaching blindly until he feels her fingers catch in his. He squeezes her hand, thumb stroking over her knuckles and her engagement ring for a moment before he leaves, gently motioning for Cynthia to return to the dressing room.

The young nurse slips into the room, eyes wide at the sight of Shelagh in front of her.

"You look so pretty!" Cynthia gushes, unable to contain the words. Shelagh blushes in response.

"Are you sure?" she queries, glancing up from beneath her lashes to watch Cynthia's enthusiastic nod.

"Should I fetch you a tiara? Or a veil?" the girl asks, watching as Shelagh bites her lip before she agrees, letting Cynthia dash about with one of the shop keepers, returning with a long veil. "She said that this will go beautifully with your dress." Gingerly, she helps affix the tulle and silk to Shelagh's hair, draping it around her figure, watching as Shelagh's expression changes in the mirror.

"Oh," Shelagh stammers, blinking furiously, tears welling in her eyes.

"Shelagh?" Cynthia coaxes, needing to hear how the woman is feeling, worried that she's sent her into a state.

"I... I look like a bride," comes the reply after a few tense seconds, tears slipping over Shelagh's lashes.


	9. Chapter 9

Patrick drives Cynthia back to Nonnatus on their way back from the dress shop at her decline of joining them for dinner. Shelagh is quiet, but he notices that she seems calmer than she has recently, her fingers laced with his on the front seat as he drives. She makes no mention of returning to her lodgings for the night, instead asking about what he has in so that she can figure out what to make for their tea. She settles on cottage pie once they've stopped at the butcher, immediately getting to work once they're safely back in his flat, Patrick watching her from the doorway as she cooks.

"I'm sure you've got questions," Shelagh says after a few minutes, her hands occupied with peeling potatoes.

"I do," Patrick agrees, carefully choosing his words. "But I'll only ask them if you're ready. And know that whenever that is, that if you're not comfortable responding, I won't push you." Her hands falter slightly at the sincerity in his voice before she sighs, picking up a knife to cube the potatoes.

"I... I want to be honest with you Patrick. About everything. You've been so understanding and kind all day. Every day, really, since I've known you. I'll try to answer your questions," she mumbles, not lifting her gaze. He crosses the kitchen then, taking the knife from her and resting it on the counter before he takes her chin in his hand, tilting her head upwards so he can look in her eyes.

"Has anyone ever hurt you sexually? Forced you to do something you didn't want?" he questions, needing the answer to this question more than any other. If she says yes, he hopes she doesn't know their name, for if she does, he will be killing them with his bare hands within a day.

"Patrick," she starts.

"I love you. Nothing you say is going to change that. But I need to know if anyone has hurt you," he assures her.

"No," Shelagh says, shaking her head. "No one has ever done anything like that. You're the only person I've ever had any form of... intimate contact with." She looks him directly in the eye at the admission, tension draining out of her at the look of relief that immediately covers his features as he ducks down and places a chaste kiss on her lips.

"Good," he breathes, resting his lips against her temple.

"Possessive," she teases, giggling when he wraps her in a hug, holding her tightly to his chest.

"I never want you to be hurt Shelagh, never," Patrick explains, not releasing her. "Can I ask what happened? I can guess, but I don't want to be wrong or to make assumptions."

"Can I finish making supper first? I promise I'll do my best to tell you everything once we've eaten."

"Of course. Why don't I put some music on and I'll let you finish," he consents, smiling when she nods before he leaves the kitchen, going to flip through the stack of records. He takes a deep breath, relishing in the sound of her putting about the kitchen, the stove hissing to life as she sets the potatoes to boil before going to cut up some carrots. He ends up picking Nat King Cole, leaving the record running as he tidies up the room for something to do, humming along with the music until he feels Shelagh's arms wrap around his waist from behind him, her tiny figure pressing to his back. He covers her hands with his own for a moment before pulling out from her embrace, turning until he's clinging to her waist, leading her slowly around the carpet, watching her pillow her head on his chest.

"I've always loved this song," she whispers, the hand that is on his shoulder playing with a loose string on his jumper. "It's always made me think of you. Even before... I always used to believe that if I were to fall in love with someone, it would be you."

"I used to think about kissing you in the moonlight every single time I listened to it," he responds, grinning at the blush he sees climbing her neck. They stay swaying slowly for the rest of the side of the record, Shelagh only removing herself from his arms when the needle scratches, heading into the kitchen to check on their supper. They eat in comfortable silence, Patrick making comments about various patients and ridiculous things he's witnessed in order to make her laugh, watching how at ease she is with him, despite the undercurrent of nervousness he knows is there. As she's cleaning up the dishes she sighs, not looking up as she starts talking.

"If... if I tell you about... everything, I... I might need to stay here again tonight. I don't think I would trust myself to get back –"

"Of course. Anything you need," he interjects, watching her take a deep breath before she returns to the sitting room, lowering herself to the cushion next to him on the sofa, wringing her hands in her lap, her pale skin contrasting against the green fabric of her dress. She's silent for the longest time, seeming to gather herself.

"I've... I've never really told anyone before," Shelagh admits.

"Shelagh, if it's –"

"No," she says, voice firm, "I need to tell you. I need to stop... stop running from it." He takes her hand in his at that, stroking over her knuckles with his thumb.

"All right," he smiles, lifting her hand to kiss her engagement ring.

"My... my mother died when I was six," she starts, intent on telling him the whole story, despite the feeling of tightness in her chest that swells at the thought of finally exposing all her broken pieces to him. "My father... he was always very kind when I was little. Doted on my mother, and on me. Always bringing home sweets and reading me stories. After... after my mother died he changed. Started drinking. I was little, I didn't understand," she rambles.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Shelagh gives him a small smile, inhaling before she continues.

"It was about six months after she died when he hit me the first time." Even though he was expecting the words, they still seem like a punch in the gut. To know that she was only six, seven at the most, when her father had started abusing her made him feel sick. He never understood how any parent could harm their child, no matter the circumstances. "He was drunk. I remember how strong the smell of the alcohol was when he... threw me to the ground, cracking his belt against my back. He didn't start in with the cigarettes until I was nine. I had come home from school and asked if I could go over to a friend's house to make some cookies with her and her mother. I don't... I don't know what it was that made him so angry, but before I –" her voice cracks then, tears springing up behind her lashes.

"Shelagh," Patrick murmurs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, trying to show her he was there.

"Before I knew it I was on the ground and his belt had come down across my back. He was yelling... telling me I was... was useless. That I couldn't do anything for myself. All I remember after that is the... the smell of my own skin burning as he pressed the cigarette into me," she hiccups. Patrick can't help but gather her into his lap then, hands stroking over her back, resting his fingers above where he now knows the marks lie. "He... he kept apologising the next day, when he was sober again. Told me he would never hurt me again. It... it lasted two weeks. His promise. He came home from the pub late one night and just... I had never felt such pain." He can feel her crying then, the tears slipping from her cheeks until they splatter onto his shirt. "Sometimes there would be longer gaps. Weeks, months. Once almost half a year, when I was fourteen. We had a bond again, for a little while then. I didn't feel terrified every time he came home. But it didn't last. As I got older it got worse. By the time I was sixteen it was every few days that he would be drunk and take out his anger on me."

"I'm so sorry," he says, kissing her temple over and over, trying to calm her, her own agitation and stress increasing with each word. Inside, he can feel himself becoming more and more furious at a man he's never met, his ire rising so far that he wants to jump in the car, drive to Aberdeen, and throttle the man. He hates himself for the query bubbling in his throat, escaping before he can stop it. "When did the emotional abuse start?" He feels her stiffen, instantly regretting the words before she lets out a watery laugh.

"You know, at the time, the emotional harm was easier to deal with," she explains, playing absent mindedly with her ring. "It started about the same time as the cigarette burns. Simple things first, telling me I was useless. That I was a burden to him. Once... once that he wished God had taken me instead of my mother. It stung, of course, but I could ignore it, to a point. Or I thought I could. When I got older he... we were quite poor Patrick. We couldn't afford much as he spent most of his money on alcohol by that point. He kept... kept telling me he would sell me but... but that no one w-would buy someone that looked l-like me," she stammers, voice hitching. "I spent my last two years living in Scotland being told I was hideous and worthless." She breaks again at the admission, sobbing into Patrick's chest as he cuddles her close.

"I love you," Patrick rushes, repeating the words over and over. "You are so strong Shelagh, more than I had ever realised. To know this... to know what you went through, and to see the woman you have become. One who dedicated herself to God and to the service of others, someone who has been self sacrificing and caring her entire adult life. A woman who has managed to find a way to allow me into her heart, to let me see the beauty you possess both inside and out. I love you, so much. You have defied everything that man ever told you that you were. You are a complete antithesis to every wretched thing he called you. You are the sun, my love, strong, gorgeous, and keeping the world turning." It takes a few moments, but he feels her breathing slow against him, jumping slightly when he feels her press her lips to his Adam's apple, her teeth scraping slightly against the stubble on his neck.

"I'm so tired," she breathes against his throat, body sagging at the admission.

"Let's get you to bed," he answers, making sure she's close to his chest before he stands, carrying her up the stairs and into the bedroom, leaving her to change. He wanders into the bathroom, leaning against the counter and looking at himself in the mirror. His reflection looks tired, tinted with a little anger still, but also relieved compared to the haggard man that had stared back at him that morning. He finds Shelagh already curled up and drifting to sleep when he gets back, seeming to have lost energy before she was able to crawl under the covers. Patrick smiles, gingerly moving her around until she's settled beneath the duvet, curling around her back and pulling her into his chest.

"Love you," Shelagh murmurs.

"Love you too," Patrick replies, debating his next question but deciding to ask it anyway. "Is he still alive? Your father?" She doesn't stiffen this time, but rather laces their fingers together.

"No," she yawns. "He died in a pub fire in 1952."

"I'm sorry. But I'm also glad. It means I won't have to kill him," Patrick whispers, kissing the shell of her ear at her exhausted laughter, burying his nose in her hair as he drifts to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

She wakes up before Patrick the next morning, finding that during the night she has managed to turn around, her face now buried in the soft fabric of Patrick's shirt. She smiles, cuddling closer for a moment and breathing in the scent of him, noting how she has never felt closer to someone than she does in that moment, her leg tossed over his hip, locking them together while her fingers play with one of the buttons on his top. It was still early but she knew she would have to wake him soon; he had to work. She wanted to stay in bed with him all day, quickly finding herself loving the sensation of waking up in his arms and listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear. Their wedding was only a few weeks away, but at the same time it felt like forever.

"You should just stay," Patrick whispers into her hair, seeming to read her mind. She tilts her chin up, kissing his Adam's apple, drawing a slight growl from his throat. "I like having you here when I wake up."

"I like it too," she answers, planting a second kiss on his jawbone, squirming until her face is level with his, blushing slightly before she leans in to kiss him properly, his hands quickly finding their way to her waist.

"Shelagh," he moans into her lips, nuzzling their noses together as he pulls back, his chest heaving as he tries to rein his body under control. The smile she gives him is sleepy and shy, but laced with something he hasn't seen before. She seems to have a different confidence about her as she wriggles out of his arms, sitting up at the edge of the bed before she stands, the hem of the nightdress she's wearing falling down to her calves but only after he's been treated to the sight of her thighs from where it had ridden up during their sleep.

"I'll go start breakfast, you get washed up and ready for work," she calls, grabbing her glasses before she slips out of the room, leaving him to let out a huff of air and flop onto his back. He stays in bed only for another moment before stretching, letting all the tension in his muscles out before he gets up and heads to the bathroom.

When he comes down to the kitchen a little while later he feels his heart seize at the sight of his fiancée. She's standing at the stove, singing softly to herself as she cooks breakfast, her hair catching the light from the window. He crowds up behind her, dropping a kiss to her shoulder as she smiles, leaning back into his chest as she scoops the eggs and bacon on to two plates, passing him one before nudging him towards the table with her hip. They eat in contented silence, Patrick revelling in the feeling of Shelagh's foot tangling around his ankle, stroking the back of his calf absently. Eventually, he groans, noting the time as he hastily jumps up and goes to gather his things.

"You should stay," he tells her, dropping a kiss on her cheek before heading out the door. She smiles, glancing down at the floor, unsure how to take the comment. "I mean it," he calls. "I love the thought of coming home to you each night and waking up with you each morning."

She lasts all of half an hour pondering the idea before she leaves the flat, going to the lodging she's been letting to gather her things and return her keys. The woman running the rooms gives her a strange look before wishing her well. She feels oddly giddy when she comes back to his home, _their_ home, soon enough. Now, technically. She tucks her clothes into the wardrobe next to his, letting her fingers trail across the differing fabrics. She doesn't have much, not really, still struggling with the idea to revoke the vow of poverty that she had lived by for so long. Looking at the dress Patrick had bought her she smiled, stroking the material before jumping when she hears a knock at the door downstairs. She opens the door to find Trixie on the stoop, the younger woman beaming at her.

"Hello Trixie," she says, feeling slightly self conscious at being found alone in the doctor's flat.

"Shelagh, are you busy?" Trixie questions in way of greeting, stepping into the house when Shelagh backs away and into the hall.

"Um, no, I've not got anything on at the moment –" Shelagh starts, looking worried when Trixie's grin grows even more.

"Wonderful! Get your things, we're going shopping," Trixie announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"I should ask Patrick –" Shelagh started.

"You can't very well ask him to come shopping for you trousseau silly," Trixie scolds, her bubbly nature infecting the flat until Shelagh feels herself blush from head to foot. She hadn't thought of such a thing. She had assumed she would just wear her normal slip under her wedding dress – not something else. Not something considered to be sexy. She attempted to stammer a reply, to say she wasn't sure if it was a good idea, but before she could get the words out she found herself in the street, Trixie tugging her along towards the bus stop, rambling a mile a minute about things like hair, makeup, and nail lacquer.

"I... I don't know anything about makeup Trixie," she confesses softly once they're seated on the bus. She can feel her own insecurity sneaking in again. What if she picked something Patrick didn't like? What if she didn't know what she was doing? If she did her hair or makeup wrong?

"Oh darling, that's what I'm here for. I couldn't very well let Cynthia come to take you shopping for unmentionables. The poor dear would die of fright," Trixie says, squeezing Shelagh's hand in reassurance. "And don't you worry about that man of yours. You could show up to your wedding dressed in bin bags and covered in mud and he would still think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. Don't forget he fell in love with you while you were hiding beneath a habit." The gentle teasing brings a smile to her face. She lets Trixie's commentary about the various pregnant women flow over her as they pass through the city, the blonde tugging her along the street once they disembark and into a high end shop. Shelagh blinked against the lights, feeling herself flush at the immodest garments that were present.

"Oh goodness," she breathed, glancing around at the varying styles and fabrics, feeling immensely out of her depth. Trixie's hand found her wrist, keeping her grounded.

"I know it can be overwhelming," Trixie starts, voice soft and calm, tempered to make the other woman feel at ease. "And I can tell this is something you're unsure of, but let me help? The other girls wanted to come along as well but I didn't want it to be too much. We all love you and want you to be happy Shelagh. You don't need to hide yourself from us. Or from your husband to be." The words are said with such sincerity that Shelagh feels her chest ache. She hadn't realised how much the young nurse had grown until that moment. She might still be free spirited and outlandish at times, but she had matured immensely in her way of dealing with other people.

"Thank you," she finally responds. Trixie positively beams, giggling as she takes her hand, dragging her towards the back of the shop.

"Now, do you have your something blue?" the girl queries, watching Shelagh shake her head. "Well, I was thinking, and do hear me out Shelagh, but maybe we could get you something blue here? Even if its just a pair of knickers." Shelagh fights against the blush she feels trying to claw its way up her neck as she nods her assent, eyes tracking Trixie as the girl grabs one of the shop keepers, rambling out ideas at the other woman who nods, smiling and nodding along with whatever Trixie is saying.

She quickly finds herself swept into a changing cubicle, surrounding by lace and silk, fingers shaking as she slips the material on. The petticoat is a combination of tulle and lace, a small silk ribbon and rosette in blue at one side, lining up with where her thigh meets her pelvis. The corset, which she initially balked at, was simple, the fabric clinging to her and giving her the shape she always struggles to believe she has. It complemented nicely to the petticoat. She bit her lip, looking at the knickers, a soft blue, before nodding to herself, knowing that as much as she worried, it was a good idea. Trixie was right – the coloured fabric would act as a surprise to her husband on their wedding night. She felt herself blushing again, thinking about the way Patrick might look at her as he lays her out on their bed. She shakes off the thought as quickly as she can, letting Trixie slip into the room to give her approval for a few seconds before shooing the young woman out again, changing back into her normal clothes quickly.

Trixie refuses to let her pay for the clothes, insisting that the nurses at Nonnatus had agreed this would be their wedding present for her. They stop at a cafe for a cup of tea and a scone before finally heading back into Poplar. Shelagh hugs Trixie fiercely at the door, whispering her thanks into the nurse's ear as Patrick opens the door, smiling at the two of them.

"Have a good day ladies?" he queries, loving the way Shelagh's eyes are alight with happiness and mischief, Trixie confirming his diagnosis of their day before she bids them both goodnight, disappearing down the street with a wave. "What do you have there?" he asks when he notices the bag in Shelagh's hand as she heads for the stairs.

"You'll have to wait till the wedding to find out," she calls back, tossing him a wink as she disappears.

When they crawl into bed later that evening, Shelagh resting her head over Patrick's chest, he strokes her arm, listening to her breathing level out before he speaks.

"Your clothes are in the wardrobe," he comments, fingers skimming up and down.

"Yes," she confirms, voice low in the darkness.

"You're staying."

"Yes."

"Good."


	11. Chapter 11

Time rushes quickly between patients, deliveries, and the clinic, because before he knows it, Patrick finds himself watching Shelagh being whisked out of the flat by Trixie and Cynthia, the two nurses giggling at his forlorn look. He watches them until they disappear down the street, a sigh escaping him as Timothy nudges his elbow.

"Can we have fish and chips for supper?" The question makes Patrick laugh as he ruffles his son's hair, agreeing with little hesitation.

XxX

Shelagh barely sleeps that night, stomach tied in knots of excitement and worry. She slips down to the chapel to pray when the nuns have finished their morning devotions, letting the silence of the stones and stained glass wash over her as she kneels before the altar. She returns to her room a while later, gathering her things before heading down the hall to bathe.

As she sits in the warm water, dragging a cloth across her skin, she lets out a shuddering breath, the insecurities she has done so well to tamp down the last few weeks seeping into the corners of her mind, tickling at her nerves until she feels itchy with them. She's getting married in a handful of hours.

As a girl she never imagined that she would be in that position. Never thought that she would find someone that would love her. And then, later, she thought her only marriage would be with God. She takes a deep breath as she gets out of the bath, letting the water drip from her body for a moment before wrapping herself in towel and robe, the pesky words her father spat at her so often clawing at her, tearing into her with each step as she goes back to her room, a vortex of howling anger in her head.

'You'll be lucky if e's actually waitin' for ye at the altar, ye bowfing trollop.'

The voice taunts her, laughing at the way her heart constricts in her chest, tears stinging at the back of her eyes. Before she can shake herself, Trixie is dragging her down the hall, the nurses gathering around her to paint her nails and do her hair. Jenny does her makeup, much to Trixie's chagrin, but she is glad of it, more content with the simple style the brunette nurse prefers. She manages to laugh with them, letting them pamper her and treat her like a doll for nearly an hour until they deem her ready to get dressed. When Trixie and Cynthia offer to help her with her gown she evades them, telling them that she will call if she requires their help, slipping into her room and closing the door with a sigh.

Her dress is hanging next to the bed, her undergarments laid on out on the desk, shoes beneath the chair. If it wasn't for the fact she might make the mascara Trixie had insisted upon run, she would burst into tears, stress and worry welling up until she feels like she can't breathe, a sensation she had shaken off when the tuberculosis finally left her body, letting her lungs expand correctly again for the first time in months. She drops down onto the edge of the bed, head swimming as she tries to force air into her alveoli, desperate for her body to accept the oxygen.

She doesn't hear the soft knock on the door, nor when it opens and closes, too busy closing her eyes against the panic that is enveloping her as she sits stoic on the mattress. She jumps, then, when she feels a hand on her wrist, drawing her attention back to the room and out of the constant symphony of 'useless' and 'hideous' that plays within her mind on a never-ending record.

"Shelagh, breathe," Sister Evangelina whispers, firm hand rubbing circles on her wrist, pulling her back to reality.

"I don't know if I can do this," is what spills from her then, months of self-deprecation and despair bubbling up until it spills over, infecting the room.

"What can't you do? Do you not want to get married?" Sister Evangelina tries to keep the shock out of her own voice, keeping a tempered pitch as she gingerly presses for more information on the matter.

"It's not Patrick. I love him. So much Sister. More than I ever thought I would be able to love another person it's just... I'm not good enough," Shelagh chokes out, trying desperately to fight the urge to curl in on herself. "I wouldn't be surprised if he... if he wasn't waiting for me at the church. I wouldn't blame him."

"What on –" the older woman starts, incredulous.

"I'm too... broken," she says, voice quiet and laced with the whimper she can't fight off anymore.

"Shelagh Isabail Mannion, you listen to me," Sister Evangelina starts, her voice offering no room for argument. "That man loves you. He has been besotted with you for ages – long before he had any right too, and before you start, yes, I was very aware of the growing affection between you two for months before you fell ill and decided to leave the Order. I'm not blind." The comment punches a tiny laugh from the blonde woman, her shoulders heaving as she tampers down a subsequent sob. "You are a beautiful young woman. You are going to make a fantastic mother to Timothy and a wonderful wife to your Doctor Turner. And if he is barmy enough to not see that, I'll put him straight into next week, you mark my words." Shelagh can't help it, falling into the woman's chest and hugging her fiercely.

"Thank you," she mumbles against the fabric of Sister Evangelina's smock, letting the woman stroke her back to calm her.

"Right. Come now. Let's get that dress on you," Sister Evangelina states, pulling away and trying to hide the redness that lines her eyes, her own emotions precariously close to the surface. Shelagh gives a slight nod, standing on shaking legs as she gets up, walking to the desk to retrieve her petticoat and corset, slipping the skirt on beneath her dressing gown before she glances over her shoulder, noticing how Sister Evangelina has kept her back turned, allowing her privacy until she has the corset secured around her, save for tightening the laces.

"Would you give me a hand?" she asks quietly, ready for the nun to say she's not comfortable with the request or to go get one of the nurses. Instead, Sister Evangelina rises from the mattress and crosses the room, scoffing slightly under her breath as she starts fiddling with the laces.

"Never understood the reasoning behind these. Constricting your lungs for hours on end, just to have a waist. You've already got a waist," she mutters, causing Shelagh to giggle as she finally pulls the ribbons into the proper position, tightening them just enough that nothing will move without making it impossible for Shelagh to draw in a full breath. The dress came next, Sister Evangelina helping Shelagh to step into the skirts, pulling them down over the petticoat before she moves around, doing up the intricate buttons along Shelagh's spine, making no comment towards the pockmarked and long scars that occasionally are glimpsed through the laces of the corset as it is covered by tulle and lace.

"Thank you," Shelagh says, squeezing Sister Evangelina's hand when the last button is done up.

"It's my pleasure," Sister Evangelina replies, smiling, as she reaches towards the chair, picking up the veil. "Now, I've not done this in a very long while, but would you like me to help you with this too?" she offers, holding up the translucent material. Shelagh nods, not trusting herself to say the words; everything suddenly so real. Without anymore preamble, Sister Evangelina motions for her to sit on the edge of the bed again, coming to stand amidst her skirts so that she can carefully pin the veil in her hair, hands as delicate as they are when handling an infant as she makes sure it is secured without pulling, tucking the fabric around. She takes a step back, surveying her work, biting her lip in the process.

"Sister? Is everything all right?" Shelagh queries, the nervousness sparking again in her belly at the nun's silence.

"I never thought I'd see the day," Sister Evangelina confesses, her voice catching slightly. "When you came to the Order, all I could think was 'what is such a beautiful, passionate, young girl doing devoting her life to God when she so clearly would thrive in a family?' But I knew He had a plan for you, as He does for all of us, and I didn't want to question that. But now, seeing you here on your wedding day... I am just so, so very happy for you. This is His purpose for you. Marrying your doctor, becoming a mother. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool that doesn't know you, nor His desires for you. And if they give you any trouble, anyone at all, you send them straight to me." Shelagh blinks back the tears at Sister Evangelina's impassioned speech, unable to stop herself from hugging the woman again, the elder female rubbing at her eyes when she pulls back.

"Thank you," she says, clutching to Sister Evangelina's hand, her heart swelling at the woman's words.

"You deserve all the happiness in the world my dear. Now, come on, can't be late to church else the vicar will have my head, not to mention that man of yours will surely think I've kidnapped you to Chichester."


	12. Chapter 12

As she's standing in the foyer of the church Sister Julienne comes up, a small smile about her lips as she regards Shelagh in her wedding dress, taking in the layers of white fabric and the veil that covers her face.

"You should be giving me away. You should be walking with me," Shelagh rushes, her nerves still plaguing her even as she hears the organ playing in the next room. She's terrified of turning the corner and finding that Patrick isn't waiting for her at the altar, despite the reassurance from Sister Evangelina.

"No. You belong to no one but yourself. And you know exactly where you're going," the words are said with determination but also affection, Sister Julienne reaching out to straighten Shelagh's veil and squeeze her hands. "You are going to have such a wonderful life," she breaths, taking one last look at the younger woman before ducking into the church, heading up towards where Sister Evangelina is attempting to keep control over Sister Monica Joan.

"Are you ready?" The question comes from Cynthia, the nurse looking at her with a beaming smile as she nods, taking a deep breath as she accepts the bouquet of flowers from Trixie, closing her eyes briefly before she hears the music from the organ swell as she moves to start the journey down the aisle.

The relief that shoots through her at the sight of Patrick and Timothy at the front of the church, both with their backs to her, nearly makes her dizzy. When he turns, his dark eyes landing on her as she is only halfway to him, she feels like her heart may explode, the look of utter adoration on his features banishing any doubts she has. She tries not to laugh a little when she sees him take an unintentional step towards her, stopping only when he feels Timothy's hand on his elbow, reminding him to stay in his place as she moves the last few meters until she is standing before him and the altar.

Patrick is beaming as he steps close enough to her that they can touch, his hands shaking slightly as they move to the hem of her veil, the satin around the base clinging to his fingertips as he raises the tulle away from her face, they eyes meeting the instant the material is out of the way. He can't help but stare at her for a breath, his entire body humming with excitement at the knowledge that the woman before him will be his wife within the hour.

"You look beautiful," he whispers, struggling against the urge to lean forward and kiss her, knowing that although their friends would laugh, the vicar might not be pleased. He smiles at the slight blush that colours her cheeks at the compliment, her eyes darting down to her hands, still bashful even in his presence. Instead of kissing her, he offers her his hand, feeling complete the moment their fingers touch, barely noticing the way Shelagh passes her bouquet to Jenny as they turn to the altar.

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you," the vicar starts, raising his hands above their heads and stretching them towards the congregation.

"And also with you," the group murmurs in reply.

"God is love, and those who live in love live in God and God lives in them," he continues. Shelagh barely hears what he's saying, occasionally picking up on certain lines, her body automatically responding as she sings the hymns quietly along with the congregation, her entire focus drawn to where her hand is clasped with Patrick's, his thumb tracing over her knuckles. She responds to the vicar's questions along with Patrick, both of them confirming they have come to be wed of their own free will, trying to fight back tears when she hears all of Nonnatus reply that they will support and uphold their marriage.

Before she knows it, the priest is telling them to turn to one another in order to exchange their vows. Letting Patrick take both her hands in his, she pivots, looking up at him as he grins, taking a breath before he starts speaking.

"I, Patrick Michael , take thee, Shelagh Isabail , to my wedded wife," he says, affection lacing each word, his hands squeezing hers as he pledges himself to her. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health," his voice catches on the word sickness, and she immediately knows he is remembering her illness and the time they were forced to be apart by it. He recovers quickly, voice taking on strength as he finishes the vow. "To love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

Shelagh can feel the tears gathering behind her eyes as her heart pounds beneath her ribs, her mind swimming at the reality of everything as she starts to offer her own promises to Patrick.

"I, Shelagh Isabail , take thee, Patrick Michael, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth." She is fully crying by the end, biting her lip as Patrick looks at her, completely smitten, as Timothy gives the rings to the vicar.

"Heavenly Father, by your blessing let these rings be to _Patrick_ and _Shelagh_ a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day through Jesus Christ our Lord," he says the words with conviction, making the sign of the cross over the simple bands in his palm before offering them to Patrick, letting him pick up the smaller of the two gold circles. "Place the ring on her finger," he adds quietly.

 _"_ _Shelagh_ ," Patrick starts, taking her left hand in his as he slides the ring onto her finger. "I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit." She can't help but stare at the band for a moment, noting the way it catches the light of the candles in the church, the stained glass windows making a mosaic of patters around them on the floor. With trembling fingers she picks up his ring, accepting his larger hand in her tiny one as she presses the band to his fingers.

 _"_ _Patrick_ , I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit."

They're both smiling by the end, giddy with the knowledge that they're _married_.

"In the presence of God, and before this congregation, _Patrick_ and _Shelagh_ have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife." The priest took their hands, joining them together before turning to the congregation. "Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder," he stated, turning to Patrick then, a smirk about his lips. "You may now kiss your bride."

Patrick wastes no time, leaning forward to press his lips to hers, chaste and yet full of passion and devotion in the way he moves his lips against hers, letting his tongue press to the seam of her lips for only a moment before he backs off, eyes sparking with excitement and mischief. She grins up at him, letting out a shuddering laugh at the catcalls and clapping they can both hear now that they're no longer wrapped up in one another. Timothy rolls his eyes while the vicar just chuckles, heading further up the altar to continue with the mass before they sign the registry book and are released from the church as husband and wife.

The afternoon flies by, snippets catching in Shelagh's mind as she floats through each moment. Walking out into the sunshine on the stone steps of the church, Patrick's hand clutched firmly in hers as the nurses shower them with confetti. Patrick's laugh in her ear as they make their way to the parish hall where the nuns have insisted on throwing a little party for them, tea sandwiches and scones abound. Timothy's quiet question if he can call her 'Mum' after he asks to dance with her. Her tears as a response as she hugs the boy close, pressing a kiss to his hair and telling him that she would adore it if he did. The feeling of Patrick's hand skimming up and down her thigh under the table as they sit side by side until the evening rolls in, Trixie assuring both of them that she will take good care of Timothy until his grandmother comes to collect him the next morning while they go off on holiday, taking a few nights at a bed and breakfast down in New Forest.

Patrick drives them back home once they've said their goodbyes, Shelagh curled up under her dress on the seat next to him, her head resting on his shoulder while their left hands tangle together amidst the fabric of her gown.

"I love you," he says, nuzzling into her hair as they pull up to the flat, Shelagh's face splitting into a smile at the words.

"I love you too," she answers, letting him get out of the car before he comes to open her door, dashing away to unlock the flat before he returns to her side, a roguish grin as he sweeps her off her feet. Shelagh can't help but let out a squeal at the action, giggling like mad as he carries her up the front want and over the threshold, kissing her deeply while she is still held captive in his arms.

"We can just go to sleep if you'd like," he whispers against her mouth, trailing his lips down to her jaw while kicking the door closed. "But if you are all right with it, I would very much like to take you to bed and make love to you."


	13. Chapter 13

Shelagh feels her heart race at his words.

 _' I would very much like to take you to bed and make love to you.'_

She knows Patrick will stop if she asks him to. Will respect her desires if she declines the invitation. Part of her screams that it is something she has to do if she wants to keep him, but the other part of her brain reminds her of how horrified he was when he thought her previous attempt at intimacy was one of obligation and not desire. As he presses a kiss to the skin just beneath her ear, however, she quickly realises that the way her heart has picked up in rhythm isn't out of needing to please him, but rather of her own yearning to be close to him in such a way.

"Patrick," she breaths, voice hitching on the 'k' of his name as he sucks at where her jaw meets neck.

"Yes?" he answers, curiosity evident in his voice, but hesitancy as well, ready to react to whatever she says in the appropriate manner.

"Take me to bed."

He navigates through the parlour, up the stairs, and into the bedroom with ease, never putting her down nor releasing her from fevered kisses, his tongue gliding along hers as he finally sets her on her feet next to the bed. She giggles, nervous in the quiet of the room as she kicks her shoes off, sinking a few inches into the carpet as he gingerly takes her veil off, tossing it onto the chair in the corner of the room. Patrick catches her cheek in his hand, stroking his thumb over the soft skin of her jawbone as he looks at her, expression so full of adoration that it takes her breath away.

"If you want me to stop, at any time, tell me. I love you. I want this to be perfect for you," he tells her, making sure that she sees the sincerity in his eyes and hears the promise in his voice. She nods, unable to speak as he leans down to kiss her, lips moving slowly against hers for a few moments before they become impassioned, his hands sliding from her waist to her back, pulling her tightly against him.

She's never done this before, never more than they're doing right now, and although it scares her, she can't help but feel a sense of longing and excitement as well, her shaking fingers going to the buttons on his blazer and popping them one by one until the jacket falls open, her hands sliding up his chest until she can push the garment from his shoulders, instantly regretting the loss of his hands on her spine when he needs to move in order to let the coat fall to the floor. The moment his hands are back on her body she moves to his tie, pulling the fabric from around his neck, glad that it had been a tame colour and pattern compared to what he usually wore. Her thoughts don't have time to linger however, as she feels his hand move from her spine down lower, cupping her backside through her dress and laughing slightly at the sound she makes in response.

"Would you like to know how long I've wanted to do this?" he questions, voice panging in hot syllables against her ear. She nods, unable to find her voice which has caught somewhere around her sternum, powerless to climb the remaining inches up her throat. "Since the moment I kissed your hand," he continues, lips latching onto her neck. "I had thought of it before, but I always managed to push the desire away. To convince myself that I shouldn't want you this way. But seeing you blush the way you did before you turned from me… it set my blood alight Shelagh."

"Oh," is all she manages, her fingers halting where they are attempting liberate his shoulders from his suspenders, her breath catching when she feels his hands travelling back up her spine to the row of buttons that seal her dress shut. She's barely worked the straps down over his biceps when he spins her around, pressing himself to her back and pushing her hair aside, a kiss landing at the base of her neck.

"You looked so beautiful today," he tells her, hands skilled from years of working at the surgery making quick work of the buttons, the heat of his fingers travelling down each vertebrae until they end at her coccyx, the dress holding on simply because she has not lowered her shoulders enough for it to fall yet. She hears him make a pleased sound at the sight of the corset laces, one digit tracing over the silk that criss-crosses over her back. She can't help the shudder that passes through her, the sleeves of her dress instantly slipped from her shoulders, passing down her arms until the dress is a pool of fabric on the floor. She hears Patrick chuckle slightly, offering her his hand as he helps her to step out of the material, leaving it in a heap on the ground as he takes in the rest of her garments.

"Is… is this all right?" she asks, shy all of a sudden. She has never truly had a man look at her in such a state of undress. Never felt the burning of a man's eyes along her figure, moving from her knees to her hips and up her chest, resting for a moment on her bosom before returning to her face.

"Gorgeous," Patrick replies, ducking down to kiss her, unbuttoning his own shirt as he devours her mouth. Shelagh can't help the groan that resonates out of her, passing from her mouth to his, his own bouncing back in answer as he swallows her exclamation of desire. Before she can truly make her mind catch up to what her body is doing, she finds herself touching his bare skin for the first time, fingers tiny against the muscles that span his shoulders to his chest. She feels him suck in a breath when her hand skims over his abdominal muscles, trying to get used to the feeling of warm flesh beneath her palm. "Can I take this off?" The question ghosts over her collarbone while she feels him playing with the tied silk at her back, his fingers pressing into the binding until she can feel them against her.

"Yes," she breathes, feeling him step behind her again. His movements are slow and deliberate, unhooking one side of the lacing before the other, dropping kisses down her spine as he reveals each inch of skin. When he pulls the silk free he lets it fall to the ground, lips tight against the scars on her back. She feels dizzy with emotion and arousal at the action, still so stunned that he would pay her any mind, let alone peppering devotion and love against the parts of her she hates most. She can't help but sway slightly from the sensation, her hand smacking against the mattress when she feels his thumbs hook under the waistband of the petticoat, sliding it down her hips as the corset falls away now that she is no longer holding it.

"You are full of surprises," he chuckles, seeing the colour of her knickers, a kiss landing at the small of her back where fabric meets flesh. She shudders, goose-bumps breaking out all over her skin as heat pools low in her belly. She melts into him the moment he is standing, accepting the sloppy kisses he gives her, pushing her gently until they fall on the mattress, his body looming over hers in the dim light of the room, the sun casting shadows through the sheer curtains. She can feel the hints of nervousness in the back of her mind, still so unsure of herself, but the love she sees in her husband's eyes quells the fear as she timidly reaches for the button on his trousers, hands shaking.

"Make love to me," Shelagh begs, letting him step back long enough to shed the last of their clothing before he returns to the embrace of her thighs, lowering himself down to her, his hand stroking her cheek, keeping this eyes locked as he joins them together. She throws her head back at the motion, the dull ache giving way to something completely different when he begins to move within her.

"I love you," he pants into her neck, kissing her when she gasps.

She loses herself in the sensations, trading kisses with her husband whenever he offers them, arching her back as his hands explore her body, first her chest and then lower, where they meet between her thighs. When she reaches her completion she sees stars, her body singing as she shatters around him, shaking as a moan tears from her. She feels him still against her a moment later, gasping as he too finds release, holding her so tightly that she thinks he fears she will disappear.

Patrick rolls them to their sides after a few moments, dropping kisses across her eyelids, cheeks, and mouth, not allowing their bodies to separate as he pulls her into his chest, cocooning her in his embrace as their heartbeats slow, his hand tracing patters on the sweat dampened skin of Shelagh's back and shoulders.

"Are you all right?" he questions, nudging her nose with his. She can't help the giggle that escapes her as she burrows against his pectorals, her breath cooling his heated skin.

"I… I didn't know that was what it would feel like. To be with someone. To be with you," Shelagh confesses, thumb tracing the bone of his pelvis. "I didn't know it would feel like I was complete for the first time in my life." He cannot help but swoop down and kiss her fervently at the admission, all tongue and teeth as she feels the first embers of fire start to lick at her again as he rolls onto his back, bringing her with him until she's sitting atop him, their chests pressed together.

"Let me show you again," he pleads. She agrees without hesitation.


End file.
